


Tomorrow's the Best Part

by ellipsis_for_all



Category: Naruto
Genre: Good times, M/M, MadaTobi Gift Exchange 2020, a lazy sunday together until hashirama interrupts, featuring chef!madara and wine guy!tobirama
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-28
Updated: 2020-02-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:35:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22935673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellipsis_for_all/pseuds/ellipsis_for_all
Summary: Tobirama shifted next to him, brushed a kiss against Madara’s cheekbone and said, callously, “Wake up.”“Fuck off,” Madara said, voice muffled by his pillow.(in which a nice Sunday is had, despite interruptions and copious amounts of holiday baking)
Relationships: Senju Tobirama/Uchiha Madara
Comments: 7
Kudos: 149





	Tomorrow's the Best Part

He opened his eyes blearily, ignoring the viciously upbeat tempo ringing in his ears. He took in the dimness of the room, and then, the man sleeping next to him. Miracle of miracles, Tobirama had actually made it to bed last night. 

Madara rubbed at an eye. Con, he did not actually get to _see_ Tobirama last night. Pro, he did get to wake up to him. Con, Madara _actually_ woke up to Hashirama’s ringtone, blaring cheerily away on Tobirama’s cell. 

Silently, Madara accepted both the loss of his Sunday morning, and Tobirama’s company for most of the day. He was, truthfully, more irritated at the loss of sleep. 

He heard a rustle amidst the noise, and the room went blessedly silent for a brief second. Tobirama murmured something quietly, Hashirama’s voice was a panicked blur of words. Madara had closed his eyes, but he could imagine the sleepiness fading from Tobirama’s face, the thoughtful frown forming as he listened to his brother. Finally, he said, “yes,” and hung up.

A sigh, and then slender fingers reached over, and buried themselves in his hair. They scratched gently, the only apology Tobirama would give. Tobirama shifted next to him, brushed a kiss against Madara’s cheekbone and said, callously, “Wake up.”

“Fuck off,” Madara said, voice muffled by his pillow. He pressed his head closer into Tobirama’s hands, who’s fingers obligingly dug in a little deeper. 

“Wake up,” Tobirama said, his cold tone a contrast to the warmth of his hands. “I want to have breakfast with you.”

Madara snorted. “You want me to make breakfast, you mean.”

Nonetheless, he stayed in bed for only a few more moments, before finally giving up. There was no point staying in bed when he couldn’t sleep, and even less of a point if Tobirama wasn’t even in bed. 

Madara had stepped back from actually running _The Leaf_ a year ago, but that had yet to start affecting a sleep schedule formed by three decades of working in high scale kitchens. Madara woke up with the sun, whether he wanted to or not, and rarely did he ever manage to sleep in. 

Which made Hashirama’s timing just perfect really. 

Tobirama, the bastard, was already up and out of bed. “Come on,” he said, “Unless you want me to get anything started?”

It was an old threat, and a weak one since Tobirama didn’t even like cooking. But it never failed to make Madara snap with possessiveness. 

“Don’t you dare touch my knives,” he said and tossed the covers off. 

-

He opened the fridge and looked over it’s contents with a critical eye. With a grunt, he gave up on the more elaborate meal he’d started thinking about last night, and pulled out the basics. Tobirama, who had once silently choked down two slices of a disastrous cake that Madara had made in a flu-induced fugue state, would not complain. 

The memory made Madara’s lips twitch upwards for a brief second. What idiots, he thought wryly. He shook his head and snapped to the table cabinets, pulling out bowls, pots, a cutting board, and two plates.

Force of habit had Madara reach up with a hand to check if his hair was pulled back. His fingers brushed the back of his neck, and for a second, he felt odd. Then, a kiss dropped on the nape of his neck, and he shivered, just barely. 

“It’s easier to do that now,” Tobirama observed, as if Madara’s hair hadn’t been short for the last two years. 

“It’s easier to cook without outside interference from people with a neck fetish,” Madara said, and turned his back to him, ignoring anything else.

He started on the eggs first. He separated the yolks, then bagan to whisk his whites. He could hear Tobirama getting to work as well. He smelled oranges, and the thought of mimosas made Madara’s mouth salivate.

While the kitchen was firmly Madara's domain, the bar, and all contents therein, were Tobirama’s. It was a battle Madara stopped fighting years ago. About ten actually.

Finding out that Tobirama was a damn good bartender was not the most startling thing Madara had come across since taking over _The Leaf_. And it was less of a shock than finding out that he wanted to be a bartender at all. But one day, _The Leaf_ had a rare opening, and Tobirama was there. Dressed smart in a button up and blazer, and utterly unperturbed by the stares of everyone on staff.

“Am I paying you to take in the scenery?” Madara had snapped, and everyone went back to work. He turned back to Tobirama. “You,” he said, utterly unimpressed. 

“Hello,” Tobirama said, just as unimpressed. “My name is Senju Tobirama, and I would like to apply for the bartender position.” 

Madara raised an eyebrow at thus far, the most unenthusiastic entreaty for employment he’d ever heard, but fuck it. Why deprive his brother of the entertainment? “I’m Uchiha Madara, owner and executive chef. Uchiha Izuna, here,” he tilted his head to his brother, who started to emit a rather maniacal aura. “Will be running your interview.”

Tobirama’s eyes started to narrow, and Madara gave him a shit eating grin. “Good luck, _Senju Tobirama_.” 

Considering what the interview process consisted of, Madara half expected it to end in a brawl. 

Just like all of their positions, the first part of the process was practical. The second part was where the actual interview took place, in Madara’s office. Thus far, no one had made it to the second part, and Izuna had terrorized at least half a dozen applicants. Still, Madara wasn’t worried. If they couldn’t handle Izuna, they wouldn’t last at _The Leaf_ anyway.

And yet, while he could occasionally hear Izuna’s jeering voice rising over the bustle in the kitchen, it seemed like Tobirama’s interview was following the same beats as the others. Thirty minutes later, after he made the rounds in the kitchen, he swooped back out.

Izuna was scowling at Tobirama, dozens of glasses of various sizes beside him. Tobirama, by all accounts, looked placid and calm. Only the slight downturn of his mouth indicated that he was also scowling.

“Well?” Madara asked, suspecting the answer. 

Izuna sighed. “Pass.” Madara looked at him and Izuna threw up his hands. “I tried!”

Madara had no doubt. For their first interview for the position, he’d stuck around and had been impressed and amused by the increasing difficulty, and ridiculousness, of Izuna’s requests. With Tobirama, Izuna probably asked for everything short of hard drugs in a cupcake. 

Fair was fair.

“Alright, _Senju Tobirama_ , let’s talk.” Tobirama nodded stiffly and went to grab his blazer. 

“You,” Madara said, slapping Izuna on the head. “Get back to work, but stay away from fire. You’re exceedingly flammable at the moment.” 

Izuna grumbled, but got up and started to collect the glasses. 

Madara led the way to his tiny office and settled on his absurdly comfortable chair. It was an indulgence, one the old man would have never have allowed. But then his father had never snagged that Michelin star in the end, and Madara _had_. So fuck you, he’d take his comfy chair and sit on it for those rare few moments in his minimum 12 hours days. 

He took a moment to appreciate the plush support against his back, and then levelled a stare at Tobirama. 

“Why are you here?”

“To apply for your bartender position,” Tobirama said. 

Madara gave him another look, and waited. 

Madara had known Hashirama, and by extension Tobirama, for the better part of two decades. Hashirama and Madara had been drawn to each due to the weight of their legacies, and the skillsets far beyond the scope of anything their peers were capable of. 

The Senjus and Uchihas were wealthy, yes, but their wealth lay on the backs of their own labor. For the Uchihas, it was their restaurant. For the Senjus, it was their winery. Madara went to the best private school in the city, but he spent all his time in kitchens and markets. At fifteen, his hands were as calloused as any soldier’s. Hashirama’s were similar, and despite his best efforts, there was usually soil under his fingernails. 

Madara wasn’t great with kids, even when he was a kid. He knew how to handle Izuna, but Tobirama struck him as a different animal entirely, so he didn’t even try. Tobirama for the most part, seemed to vacillate between apathy and a sort of jealousy at the older boy he suddenly had to share his brother’s attention with. 

Madara couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Tobirama, but he was damn sure there was no sign of an ambition to bartend in a high scale restaurant.

Finally, Tobirama spoke. “I’m going to be a sommelier. I need more hands on knowledge than I can get at my family’s winery.”

Madara considered that. Tobirama was already studying viticulture and enology, but he was an overachiever. It made sense he would gun for something as intense as a sommelier certification simultaneously.

“Okay,” he said, accepting that answer. “Why here?” 

Tobirama held his gaze. “Why settle for less?”

Well. Madara thought about the fact that Tobirama was the only applicant to make it this far. He also thought about his current bartending staff, who were days away from throwing a shot glass and declaring a mutiny. 

“Congratulations,” he said and stood. “You’re conditionally employed.” 

Tobirama’s brow furrowed. “Until when?” 

“Until you work a full week front of house. Or you break. Whichever comes first.”

Despite Tobirama’s conviction and apparent skill, Madara expected him to quit. If there was one thing they shared in common, besides a reluctant affection for a certain idiot, it was an exceedingly low tolerance for all other idiots. And most customers were idiots. Particularly when given alcohol. 

There were reasons why Madara didn’t interact with his customers, and it was only mostly because he belonged in the kitchen. 

But Tobirama didn’t quit. Madara mercilessly gave him four shifts in a row that very same week, and the punk took his schedule with a mechanical thank you. He served his drinks, did it with something on his face that some might consider a smile, and dealt with many, many idiots. 

That first week turned into two, then three, then a month, and then several months. Until Tobirama fit into his restaurant like it was where he was meant to be. 

He got along with most of the other staff. Which made sense, since Madara tended to only employ people with nerves of steel and smiles that could strike fear into the hearts of gods and men. Even Izuna—well Izuna was shades more amicable. By comparison. 

Sometimes, there was even something like camaraderie. However, they had not yet reached the point of not enjoying each other’s misery like the sadists they both were. Thus Tobirama’s inclusion in the tally.

Although Madara hadn’t considered how Tobirama’s ability to, at will, detach himself emotionally from any situation would come in handy in customer service, he wasn’t surprised by the fact that even Senju Tobirama could not escape the curse of the Attractive Bartender. 

It was technically Madara’s night off, but he made a habit of dropping in sporadically on those days. Just to keep his staff on their toes. He made his way to the bar, catching the tail end of a frigidly polite thank you that made a red faced man wilt in his chair. 

Izuna, also close enough to hear, snickered. He ducked back into the kitchen and said, “Add another one to the tally!”

“What tally?” Tobirama asked as Madara sat down. Tobirama automatically poured two fingers of Scotch and slid it over to him. 

Madara took a moment to savor the drink before answering. “The tally keeping track of rejected patrons. We run a pool each week.” 

Tobirama absorbed this and smiled, the sharp scars on his cheeks lifting. “No sympathy for your guests I see.”

Madara snorted. “They deserve it. What kind of jackass thinks picking up the bartender is gonna work?”

This shit was why he was allowed to skimp on waiting tables growing up. The minute anything vaguely flirtatious came out of a customer’s mouth, he’d just stare until they dropped their gaze and mumbled their order. Not great for repeat business, his father was forced to concede. 

It was slow at the moment, the way Tuesday nights were, this late. Madara was taking in the room, the sounds in the kitchen, and he almost missed what Tobirama said.

“Why don't you try it, and find out?”

Madara’s attention snapped back to the bar. Tobirama was wiping down the table. He glanced down at his drink, still half-full. Not drunk then. “What?”

“Why don't you try it?” Tobirama looked him in the eye and repeated clearly. “And find out?”

For a second, Madara considered laughing it off. For a second, he heard a voice say, _Hashirama's little brother_. 

But he looked at Tobirama's eyes, intense and intent, and he couldn't laugh. And Madara realized exactly at this moment, that he’d already stopped thinking of Tobirama as Hashirama's little brother. Though god knows when that happened.

He let his gaze settle on Tobirama, who bore the weight of it easily. “Hey bartender,” Madara drawled and drained his glass. “What's your sign?”

Tobirama rolled his eyes, but they were kissing less than three hours later. Tobirama, cold and vicious, pressing kisses into his throat and murmuring softly into his ear. Tobirama, who could and had argued with Madara over things as stupid as the French, fell into Madara’s bed like he belonged there. 

They worked together, somehow, that night. And it was just a thing that became an occasional affair. Reoccurring, because it had been good, so why not? Occasional, because between work and Tobirama's studies, what else could it be? But at some point, Tobirama graduated, stepped away from _The Leaf,_ and their weird thing kept happening. 

One day, Madara cooked him a meal without thinking about it. And then he was doing it all the time, cooking for two instead of one, folding laundry that wasn’t his, having a goddamn custom bar built into his home. Feeling the slow and steady rise of someone's chest underneath his ear. 

Having his mornings interrupted by Hashirama more than usual.

Madara had just finished plating the bacon when Tobirama placed two glasses of mimosas down.

“I hope you made enough juice for more.” 

Tobirama rolled his eyes, which Madara took as a yes, and they sat down. They didn’t usually talk during breakfast. Morning meals were a rarity for them to share, even more so than dinner and lunches. 

They worked their way through their food. Tobirama read the news on his tablet, occasionally reaching up a hand to push up his glasses. Madara thought about everything he had to do today. He’d planned on swinging by _The Leaf_ , but he’d already done that last Sunday. And he was trying to, how did Tobirama put it?

_“Cut the apron strings,” Tobirama said ruthlessly._

Madara didn’t regret making stepping down and making Izuna executive chef. He was proud of Izuna, of the staff he’d assembled over the years. But he was pretty sure popping in all the time would probably not get that feeling across. 

“Heading out to the restaurant?” Tobirama asked as he washed their plates. 

“No,” Madara said. He ignored the tiny smile that bloomed in response. “That would be predictable.” 

“Hmm.”

“Know when you’ll be back?”

Tobirama frowned. “Unpredictable, I’m afraid. Go ahead and have lunch without me.” 

Madara shrugged and dried a glass. “Your loss.” He probably wasn’t going to have a lunch, but Tobirama didn’t have to know that.

They finished cleaning up and started getting ready for their days. Madara’s, at home. Tobirama’s, with his brother. They fought over who’s turn it was to wear their favorite hoodie. Cream-colored and oversized, it was soft and warm, and definitely Madara’s first. 

“You’re going out in public, you should be dressed more respectable!”

“You can’t wear it for long anyways, you’ll be baking,” Tobirama pointed out. 

“Pfft.” 

Tobirama pulled it on, smug in his victory. 

Madara was assembling his ingredients when Tobirama finally stepped out of their bedroom. Even when Madara had long hair, he was always ready first. He was in the middle of measuring out his sugar when he felt a gentle tap on his cheek. 

He grumbled, but turned his head and met Tobirama for a kiss. A proper Sunday morning kiss, deep and lazy. At some point, Madara had set down the sugar and reached up. He was running his thumbs along Tobirama’s scars when they pulled apart. Madara smirked at the fog on his glasses. 

“Be back,” Tobirama said and then added hopefully, “Soon.”

Madara made a noise in his throat and stepped away. “Tell Hashirama he owes me two hours of sleep and the name of his firstborn.” 

“You’ll have to fight Touka for it.”

“I’d win,” Madara said firmly and shut up Tobirama’s rebuttal with a kiss. “Go away and deal with whatever the hell your brother thought was worth waking us up early for.”

“He’s my brother whenever he does something annoying, but your best friend whenever he has extra tickets to a game.” 

Madara waved him away with a hand, already thinking about baking. Tobirama must have left then, or maybe a few minutes later. He didn’t know, nor was he particularly concerned. Tobirama would be back sooner or later. 

In the meanwhile, he had holiday baking to get to. 

With the kitchen free from distractions, Madara got to work. Whereas most people bought presents, Madara made his. Mito said it was because food was the only way Madara knew to express himself with any nuance, but honestly it was mostly because he hated shopping. 

And it was expected at this point. Getting Homemade Uchiha Baked Goods was a goddamn highlight of the holiday season. It worked out for everybody. Madara didn't have to deal with crowds, his family and friends got to eat his food.

He reached back down for the sugar.

-

Four granola bars and five hours later, Madara had baked an unholy amount of various cookies and breads. He’d labeled, stored, and cleaned as he went along, but there was still a small mountain of dirty bowls and utensils in the sink, waiting for him. 

Madara cracked his neck and made coffee. He’d just finished scrubbing the last pot when the door opened. 

Tobirama came in, looking less exhausted than he would have thought. He moved with a languidness markedly different than his usual measured grace. 

Ahhh. 

Hashirama tended to sweeten visits by sharing a new wine, or breaking open one of the endless alcoholic gifts he’d received from colleagues. For a man who ran one of the most prestigious wineries on the continent, it was a crapshoot as to what you’d be drinking. Hashirama loved all his presents. He kept and shared all of them, including the horrible ones trolling friends and ignorant acquaintances gave him as gifts. 

Tobirama pulled off their hoodie with a touch more trouble than usual and tossed it onto the counter. He came around to the sink as Madara was drying off his hands. 

“He was just having another crisis about being a father.” 

Of course.

“He's not a father yet,” Madara said, scoffing. He looked at Mito's present, which he'd doubled on account of her pregnancy, and frowned. Babies couldn't eat solid food. 

“You'll have to actually buy their kid something next year,” Tobirama said and smirked. His glasses were crooked, and Madara bit back a grin.

“Shut up.” He made a note to look up gourmet baby food. “What'd you drink anyway?” he asked. 

“Guess,” Tobirama said and pulled Madara in by his waist. His hands slid down Madara’s back, into the pockets of his jeans.

“Champagne,” Madara said. 

“Mmm.” Tobirama trailed kisses up his neck, stopping just underneath his jaw, where he lingered. 

“It always gets you,” Madara searched for a word as Tobirama's hands took a more active position on his ass. "Going."

“Does it?” Tobirama asked nonchalantly and pulled him towards their bedroom. Madara followed gamely, with one last look to make sure the kitchen was clear. 

Yep, perfect.

Some hours later, when they were pleasantly aching and had showered, Madara got up to make something for dinner.

“What do you want to do?” His stomach rumbled with a reminder that he’d survived off granola bars and sampling his baking efforts. He could go for something savory. Roasted maybe? 

“We could watch a documentary,” Tobirama suggested

“Fuck no,” Madara said. “You always choose depressing ones, and that is not how I'm spending my Sunday night.”

“You liked Blackfish,” he pointed out. 

Madara snarled. “I liked imagining whalers drowning in the depths of the unforgiving ocean.”

“Overwatch then,” he said. “It’s been a while since we’ve played that one.” As if he wasn’t the reigning champ of several local leagues. Madara hadn’t played as Reaper in months though, so.

“Sure,” he said and revised his dinner plan to something easy to grab. Ehh, there was some nice ‘nduja he’d just gotten. Crackers, those pretzels he’d made last week. He grabbed a few more things, as well as two beers from the fridge, and headed to the couch. 

Tobirama finished setting up the game and handed him a controller. “Competitive?” he asked.

Madara rolled his eyes. “Obviously. Hybrid.”

Tobirama nodded and snagged a pretzel. “Let’s go.”

They watched each other’s back and took turns loading up on more food and drinks. They played until the room was dark, and Madara was stifling a yawn.

Tobirama’s focus was still on the screen, but he was leaning more heavily against Madara than before. 

“Come on,” he said. “Let's go to bed.” 

Tobirama grumbled, but wrapped up the game and then began to blink in a way that was both rapid and slow. Several slow blinks, Madara thought, a bit disoriented himself. 

He shook his head. “Come on,” he said again, and they started to put everything back. For once, Madara left dirty dishes in the sink. It made him twitch, but it was only a few things anyways, he reasoned. 

Madara fought another yawn and walked to the bathroom, Tobirama following behind, still blinking several times, but slowly. They stumbled into their pajamas, in a way that would have made their younger selves laugh. 

Still, they managed to get changed and fall into bed. Though Tobirama had to get back up to turn off the lights. He made sulky comments all the way, but it was known that once Madara hit the bed, he did not get up till morning. He got up again to put away his glasses. Finally, he slid back under the covers, moving a little closer to Madara. Their heater turned on, a comforting, rumbling noise. 

It was a good Sunday. The best thing, Madara thought as he drifted off, is that he would wake up to Tobirama again tomorrow.

**Author's Note:**

> *sliding in late with a starbucks drink in hand* here's my gift to moooooiste, a truly amazing artist. their madatobi pieces are gorgeous and you should definitely check out their tumblr
> 
> i hope you like this buddy and that you have a good time reading it!!
> 
> stuff relating to the fic that didn't quite make it in  
> -tobirama is the youngest person ever to become a master sommelier  
> -the senju winery suffered a fire when hashirama and tobirama were young, and that was a formative thing  
> -under madara's leadership, the leaf received two michelin stars  
> -the stress got really bad tho, so he handed the reins over to izuna, who'll snag them their last star in a few years  
> -sundays are sacred in the madatobi household, disturb them at your own peril. only hashirama gets a pass  
> -sasuke is currently a fresh faced teen working at the leaf, where he catches the eye of another bushytailed employee (it's naruto)
> 
> thanks so much to moooooiste, who asked for domestic madatobi fluff. and thanks to the mods who organized the gift exchange!
> 
> happy reading ヽ(⌐■_■)ノ♪♬


End file.
